The Devil You Know
by Royalty09
Summary: Sequel to The Way Life Should Be, picks up with Jackson and Renee during the surveillance of Lisa Reisert and the infamous red eye flight.
1. Chapter 1

Renee's fingernails dug into the black film that covered each basement window. The residue had to be spray paint she decided, and that lovely finishing touch made her new home every bit as depressing and gloomy as a good interrogation room should be. That had to what this was; one light hanging from the center of the room leaving all four corners obscured by shadows, a single folding chair, curious specks – some still red, maybe fresh, and others, dried, faded to a dark brown – fanned out around that chair in all directions. But the loveseat was clean; probably moved down here after the last poor soul who'd occupied this room had spilled his or her blood. She was thankful for that at least, the cleanliness of that small piece of furniture. It would no doubt serve as her bed for as long as Jackson kept her here.

"I know how this is going to end. You probably don't believe me when I say it, but it's true," she said.

Her voice was quiet, solemn and strained from her cries for help, which had come to a stop along with his car; when she knew for certain they had gone unheard. Renee didn't have to be loud. The subdued words were aimed at the man standing behind her with one hand on her waist, the other pressed against the wall, supporting the full weight of his relaxed body. And no matter how hard she tried to dismiss it, she couldn't escape the feeling of his eyes on her, watching as she picked at the darkened glass.

This man, the same one she had screamed for less than an hour ago said nothing in response, at least not initially. He stiffened at her words however, confused by what she'd said but refusing to admit it.

Renee had wondered why she'd done it; called out for him. It seemed strange after all that had happened, but when the car had come to a complete stop and the trunk had popped open she had been greeted by two men, neither one of them Jackson. She had been dragged into the house by the larger of the two, kicking and screaming the whole time. She remembered a hand coming close to her face as she was unceremoniously set down, she remembered biting that hand without hesitation, bracing for an impending blow, seeing an arm raised overhead, coming down on her, watching as that arm was caught mid air and then there was Jackson, grabbing onto her and holding on as she thrashed about like a child in the midst of a tantrum. He held her tight, so tight she couldn't move, could hardly breathe, refusing to let go until time passed, the minutes dragged and she quieted down.

Again, she likened it to the power of a familiar face. She knew what to expect from him – for the most part – knew the things that angered him and to a lesser extent, how he felt about her. They had reached a strange understanding of sorts and to start over again with a new captor or worse yet, _captors_, was unfathomable.

He cleared his throat. A sudden exhalation, but something she knew had to be forthcoming because he would never let her, or anyone for that matter, have the last word.

"What do you mean?"

"You'll take me somewhere. This…_can't _be your home," she responded, referring to the two story, white colonial style house with blue shutters and no visible neighbors, located somewhere in the Middle-of-Nowhere, New Hampshire.

"It is not."

"But you're not going to tell me where we're going. You'll make me wonder, guess?"

"You'll find out soon enough, and it will be much nicer than these accommodations, I promise you that," he said, almost apologetically.

"I'm sure it will be. Your home will be great; you'll treat me well and for a while…,"

"So what's the problem?" he interrupted.

"Things will change….things always change when people get comfortable. I won't live up to your expectations, you'll lose patience with me and then you'll do all the things you've already promised yourself you won't do…you'll hurt me."

What a life it would be, she mused, handmaiden to some emotionally needy assassin. If this weren't real life and if she didn't have the very real suspicion that she would never see her parents again, if she wasn't still weighted down by grief over her sister's death – a feeling she didn't think would ever fade – the whole situation would be laughable.

"But no matter what, I'll be locked away and you'll be one step closer to becoming a monster. Why, for what?" she asked, questioning him and her intended fate, already knowing the answers.

"You're being overly dramatic again," he responded. "But I'm glad to hear it."

"Glad to hear what?"

"That you think I'm only one step closer to losing my humanity. I'm kind of surprised you didn't pin the 'monster' label on me a long time ago."

"This is all a joke to you, isn't it?"

"No; on the contrary, I see it as a start," he answered, his voice dropping low, not pushing the envelop this time.

He watched her hand, the one that clawed at the glass. Renee had cleared a circle large enough to see outside and around, though she saw little more than a cracked and shoddy driveway. Steam rose from it as it baked in the summer sun; a stark contrast to the cool, damp air of the basement. Having spent her whole life living in the south, living in homes with slab foundations, the chill she felt now was less than welcome.

"You won't be able to break the glass, Renee, don't even try," he warned. Based on his comment, she wondered if he could read her thoughts and somehow knew she was scheming even as she spoke to him calmly or was it just his uncanny ability to predict human nature?

"There's a bathroom here. No tub or shower, but there's hot water and towels if you want to wash up. I'll bring you blankets…your backpack, unless you want me to find something nicer to wear than that Faded Glory shit you seem to love."

It sounded like a slam, a knock against the Walmart brands she didn't necessarily love, but could certainly afford and call her own; things that hadn't been passed down from Elizabeth. And yet she knew it wasn't meant to be insulting. She knew his mocking tone and that's not what this was. It was as if…

"Are you trying to make nice?" she asked, the words filled with shock and contempt. "What is wrong with you? Can't you feel…?" She stopped, unable to find the words to complete that sentence; not without pushing _him_ over the edge.

"Who do you think I am?" he asked, taking her accusations in the worst possible way. She knew what he was thinking, why he had become so defensive all of sudden and had to admit that he wasn't completely off base.

He stepped back, moving toward the staircase before he turned back around, clearly offended that she would label him a deadbeat but thinking that to walk away during an argument would be an admission of defeat or worse, an acceptance of the title. "Do you think I'm some sort of working class schnook like your ex? I'm better than that. I'm better than him."

Renee offered nothing but a blank stare to counter his wholehearted assurances, knowing that his resolve and willingness to change would fall by the wayside once he felt secure. Those all too common phrases, _I'm sorry_ and _it won't happen again_, would later become, _it's your fault_, and _if only you would learn to act right._ And in that moment she reminded herself never to fall for the phony promises and insincere trappings of another well-known face. What she saw before her was old wine in a new bottle, nothing more.

"I'll just have to take your word on that. You've given me no choice in the matter," she said.

"Do you remember the first promise I made to you?" he asked, relenting in the face of her misery, offering what was for him, a shred of kindness.

Renee thought back to all their encounters, some bone chilling, some impassioned, some tender; but try as she might, the only memory she could ever truly recall was the sight of Elizabeth lying on a cold bathroom floor, covered with a blanket as if keeping her out of sight could ever really keep her out of mind. That tragedy obscured everything else, making her encounters with Jackson irrelevant as well they should be.

"I don't know," she admitted, voice cracking just a little from the grief as she crossed the room, passed him by without so much as a glance and plunked down on the sofa with a heavy sigh.

"I promised you that if you stayed with me, you'd be happy," he said and dropped a book into her lap.

_The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, _by Stephen R. Covey.

Renee laughed, picturing Jackson relaxing in his home, a beer in one hand, this book in the other, dreaming of a time when he would one day rule the world.

"It's perfect, thanks, Jackson."

"I'm leaving, Renee," he said abruptly, ignoring her sarcasm and drawing a concerned look from her. "I wanted you to have something to help pass the time. These guys will bring you food, but that's about it."

Food; he spoke with optimism as if she could possibly eat at a time like this. How long had it been since she'd had a meal she began to wonder. If memory served, it was lunch with Elizabeth on Friday afternoon, when life was easier and on a relative upswing.

That was one day and three murders ago….

"You're going to leave me in the care of the Jackson Five?" she laughed, referring to the five men she'd counted in total as she was being _escorted_ to the basement.

To her surprise, Jackson wasn't upset by her snide remark. Stunned as he was by her use of humor at a time like this, he quickly recovered, grinning at her and flashing, not the fake, pursed lip smile she'd seen before, but his genuine smile; the one that made his nose flatten just a little and his forehead crinkle. Renee found it somewhat unsettling that she had so quickly learned to tell the difference.

"I never know what's going to come out of that mouth of yours," he began, starting up the stairs and leaving her behind. "Being unpredictable is what got you here, Renee. And we both know it's better to laugh than cry. Don't forget that. It'll help you through it."

Renee wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, but by now she'd grown weary and was almost too tired to care.

Feeling as though the point had been made, he ascended the stairs, shutting the door behind him quietly and leaving her alone to wait and wonder where he was taking her, how he planned to get her there and dreading the time when that door would open and she would be told it was time to go.

She reached into her back pocket and withdrew the pen; the one that had rolled into her desperate, searching fingers as she lay there with her hands tied behind her back, frightened and blind. It was ironic really; everything else in Elizabeth's life had been a shambles. To live with her peacefully was to ignore the clothing strewn about her home, to dismiss the wet towels she would leave balled at the foot of her bed only to throw them away when they grew mildew, and her closet looked like a bomb, one throwing clothing rather than shrapnel, had gone off. But the trunk of her car was bare…go figure.

At the time it didn't seem like a useful object. She didn't envision herself fighting off a group of men and winning her freedom with her trusty Cross pen, but she had held onto it, had chosen to conceal it anyway, because there was nothing else.

Now, as she opened the book to the dedication page, seeing all the blank space it provided, she touched pen to paper and began yet another desperate act.

"_My name is Renee Ridgewater. If you should read this…"_

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**Author's Note: I just had to start the sequel. A bit of writer's block again, so I figured starting a new story might give me a much needed jump start.**

**So, Renee's stuck in a basement for now. It won't stay that way for long and these two have a very bumpy ride ahead.**

**Thanks to emptyvoices for the input and to everyone else for taking the time to read and/or review.**


	2. Chapter 2

_The woman had a habit of shouting into the phone in such a way that Jackson was certain their neighbors down the street knew all about his parents illegal activities in the most graphic detail. To this day he wasn't entirely sure if the people on the other end of the phone had been hard of hearing, or if it was her. With the way she dismissed every word that came out of her children's mouths it was hard to tell._

_Life was a void, each day the same, blending into the next. An endless, unbearable sort of existence, one any human being would have longed to be released from._

_Giving in would have been easy. There were countless times in his youth when he'd cursed himself for ever having wanted more – nights like that one when once again, he had been forced to snatch his younger brother from the clutches of a drunken monster, run upstairs, lock, then finally, barricade the door for their own protection. There were times when he wondered why he didn't just pilfer from the old man; take a swig or two of whiskey while he wasn't looking, which wasn't often, so that he could watch his brother get beaten and, for once, not give a damn about it; so that he might take his own beating with the same degree of apathy. _

_And there were countless times in his adult life when he looked back with relief that his pride had always won out, that he hadn't drown in his indifference. He was better than that. He had gotten out….and he had been more than willing to do so no matter the cost because that was **not** going to be his life._

_The young boy looked up with a start when the dilapidated bedroom door creaked, fear and pain still coursing through his body. A sudden slap to the face, knuckles colliding with full lips, splitting them open, had a way of bringing a person, particularly a child, to full and prolonged attention._

_Poor kid, Jackson thought, remembering the rage his father had been so eager to unload ever since he'd walked through the front door after a less than successful game of poker had landed in Elliot's lap, or face, to be more accurate. No one mentioned that the canned soup that served as dinner was barely above room temperature; no one but Elliot and he'd earned a couple of quick blows for the criticism._

_The older man had gone berserk in his usual way, cursing at the twelve year old boy as though he were the one responsible for drinking and gambling their savings away, as though the reason they were currently eating by candle light had something other to do with the fact that their parents had been unable to pay the electric bill. But deep down his father had to know the truth and with each clink of a rusty spoon he was reminded of his failures and what does a moron do when he lacks the drive and ability to change…he blames. _

_Who does he blame?_

_He blames those who are physically weaker than him because he is a coward at heart and needs to feel the safety that comes from an assured victory. His own children were the easiest targets, but in lieu of them, a woman – his woman – as he commonly referred to her, would fit the bill just as well. _

_In Jackson's case, growing up in a home ruled by people who were little more than slaves to their own vices meant growing up quickly. For Elliot, it was different, it was tragic because he was still young enough for certain foolish beliefs; that parents were supposed to love their children, and that you wouldn't hurt the ones you loved. For the most part, that was probably true - but not those two; the sperm donor and the incubator as he'd come to know them. Elliot always was a bit slow on the uptake, unlike Jackson who had watched the two of them hit what any reasonable person would consider rock bottom dozens of times, but every time it happened, they didn't stop, they just kept right on going, reaching new levels of disgrace and no matter how hard he tried, Jackson couldn't bring himself to act or even care. Instead, he had learned to keep his head down and his mouth shut, his heart hardened as the days, months and years went by._

_But tonight was different. From time to time things got to him, sparked his sympathy and compassion. The sight of his kid brother, cast in the dim light of a half-dead flashlight with his bloody lip and tearful eyes asking him from the hundredth time, "Do they still love us, Jack?" got to him, haunted his recollections to this very day._

"_It doesn't matter anymore, Elliot," Jackson began, touching a damp cloth to that injured lip and listening as the front door slammed; his mother most likely, going out for a night on the town, seeking her own escape via a needle, pipe or bottle. As far as he could tell his father was still at the kitchen table, no point in thinking otherwise because that imbecile's life was nothing if not predictable; drink, eat, and criticize. If the guy didn't wake up soaked in his own urine, he considered it a victory. When he finally woke the following afternoon he would gather his empty beer cans and proceed to the grocery store to stand in line with the rest of life's regrets for whom bottle redemption was a major source of income. It was increasingly difficult to recall, but Jackson remembered that his father had been a good looking man before the drink had given him an enlarged belly and a nose that closely resembled a cherry tomato. It was funny, really. Most kids would have enjoyed watching their dad turn into Santa Claus._

_Instead, Jackson had found himself surrounded by filth and stupidity in ever increasing amounts as the transformation took place. He often wondered if all dysfunctional families were like this or if he was simply cursed. Whatever the case may be, he couldn't stand it and knew that each passing day brought him closer to ending it all and he would often lay awake at night wondering what would push him over the edge, what would be the catalyst?_

_There were many times he'd had the notion. He would see his father kneeling beside the stairs, tying his shoelaces, his mother leaning precariously on a ladder while changing a light bulb and he'd felt the overwhelming urge to give them that little push he felt they needed so badly. _

_And he never forgot the day when he'd been watching his father, happily enthralled in one of his death-to-you fantasies, when the older man had looked up and smiled at him contemptuously. It would seem that dear old dad knew the look on his son's face and had more than likely had a dream or two about sending a family member down that same flight of stairs._

"_Before you think about doing anything stupid, just remember one thing, boy," his father began, his powers of perception one of the only things that alcohol hadn't destroyed at this point. "I'm all you got."_

_Would it really be so wrong, would doing such a thing – ending these essentially wasted lives – be such a horrible thing? He never could reach a definitive answer. Right and wrong were difficult concepts for him to grasp. Little did he know that even after his teenage years and the confusion that accompanied them passed he would still struggle with that particular theory. It wouldn't be too long before he decided it was foolish to takes sides other than his own._

_But it was true, this family, such as it was, was all Jackson had at the moment. He wasn't old enough to strike out on his own just yet and even if he were, he couldn't leave Elliot behind. _

_The perplexed look on Elliot's face brought him back to reality, though it probably shouldn't have. Elliot always looked confused; not a lot of brains rattling around in that pretty little head of his. Jackson also spent a lot of time wondering exactly when his mother had started using and if her habit had had any effect on his younger brother's development. Two brothers, alike in almost every way, save one…it would make sense._

"_We don't need or want the love of those two. We have each other and no matter what, I'll always look out for you."_

_And his dimwitted but undeniably sweet little brother looked up at him in complete adoration – an expression that Jackson had to admit boost his ego and made the task of becoming surrogate father easier to take– smiling as wide as that split lip would allow._

_It was a smile that both warmed and broke Jackson's heart. _

_He stayed by his brother's side until he drifted off to sleep and was about to drift off himself when the two Diet Cokes he'd consumed a couple hours earlier came calling._

"_Damn it," he hissed under his breath, cursing the luck._

_He walked down the hallway, flashlight in hand, hugging the wall, hoping this action might minimize the creaking of the floor boards, but it didn't do a damn bit of good. Pipes rattled, stairs and floorboards creaked. The house seemed to be on a 24/7 verge of collapse and he was literally surrounded by the knowledge that he was rotting inside and alongside this dilapidated structure. They lived in a rundown home in a rundown part of town. The house itself had been in the family for years. If that hadn't been the case, they would have been out on the street or residences of the crime ridden Sunnyvale Trailer Park along with the rest of the trash._

_He did his business as quickly as possible and didn't even notice her standing in the doorway, back early from whatever the hell she'd been doing, until he was washing his hands. How had she moved silently in this house, he wondered and how long had she been there in the dark? Had she actually watched him take a piss?_

"_What's wrong with…," he began._

"_You've grown up so much. Look at you. So smart, so handsome."_

_He didn't like where this was going, not one damn bit. Didn't like the look in her eyes; hungry, needy._

"_I don't know what you're talking about. Go back to bed."_

_The doorway was narrow. She didn't stand in his way, but she didn't move either, forcing him to wiggle past her with a closeness he found repulsive. To his surprise, she cupped the side of his face with her right hand and began to study her son with something that bordered on clarity._

"_You and your brother, so beautiful, you could be models, or…,"_

_He'd been about to tell her that maybe she could have been as well. She'd been beautiful before the drugs had pulled her under. In the dim, almost candle light glow of the flashlight, he saw the remnants of that beauty once more. But what a job those pills, liquids and powders had done. They'd left her with thinning hair, pock marked skin and once brilliant blue eyes that had faded as though someone had climbed into her head and shut all the lights off. Before he could say any of that, say his peace, a single word captured his attention._

_Or…._

"_Or what?" he asked._

"_Nothin," she said in response, letting her hand fall to her side and turning around with a dismissive look. _

"_It's not nothing, what are you talking about?" Even at the age of sixteen, his instincts were sharp enough to tell him that this issue needed pursuing._

"_I said drop it!"_

"_I won't drop it, I…"_

"_Fuck you," she hissed and stormed off. _

_Though he was probably passed out by now, Jackson didn't want to risk waking his father and she always hissed before she screamed. That useless sack of shit wasn't good for much, but the sound of his wife bellowing always woke him from his slumber. No good ever came of it. So he went back to his bedroom, reset the barricade and checked on his kid brother one last time before dozing off for the night._

_He'd overslept that morning, which was not like him at all. It was Elliot that got him out of bed eventually, standing over him, whispering 'Jack' over and over, scared to wake him, scared not to._

"_What the hell are you doing?" Jackson mumbled as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes._

_There he was, clearly having been awake since their alarm had gone off and fully dressed, just waiting for his brother to tell him what to do. Following orders was and always would be what Elliot had done best. _

"_Go to school," he told the younger boy. "No sense in both of us catching hell for being late…I'll be there to walk you home," he finished when Elliot seemed less than eager to go._

_One more "you promise"; one more assurance from Jackson and Elliot was on his way. He practically skipped down the stairs, overjoyed like they always were when they were leaving the house. Returning in the evenings was a whole other animal. _

_It wasn't that much longer, ten, maybe fifteen minutes, before he was ready to head out as well. He stepped quietly though. From the moment he'd opened his bedroom door, he'd been able to hear his mother's voice whispering in a conspiratorial manner. There wasn't much that would be considered sinful in this house. If she of all people felt the need to speak in hushed tones then whatever she was up to must be the worst kind of debased endeavor and something he should make sure he became aware of._

"_Use the boys." _

_Jackson listened with little emotion as his mother offered up the use of her children for $50 a piece. He should have cried. He should have been terrified, should have run away, any number of things, but it was too late for that. Too late for her. This was the catalyst he'd been waiting for. A weight was lifted. Clarity was restored._

"_You know Elliot, he's a pushover. Jack's gonna be trouble…."_

_He smirked as he descended the rest of the stairs with plans and reasons for his first murders._

"_Congratulations, that's the smartest thing you've said all day, Mom."_

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Jackson sat up in bed, dripping with sweat, his chest feeling constricted and his breath coming in desperate gulps. Other than the obvious reasons; remembering his quasi-tragic past and Elliot's death, he could have sworn he'd heard the sound of a woman crying. Maybe it was only a memory, a lingering nightmare of the times he would lie awake at night and listen to his mother's tears. Back then he still cared for her and for her part, she wasn't that far gone, not yet. The horrible things she had to do in order to fuel her habit ate at her when the buzz wore off and she realized that her life was speeding down hill faster than a runaway train. He remembered that the only thing worse than the countless nights he'd been forced to listen helplessly as she cried herself to sleep was that first night when she hadn't. Like his father, she decided to take the path of least resistance.

"Enough of this crap," he muttered, tossing off the covers and stepping out of bed. Childhood memories, remorse over the things he'd done; mulling over the past in general would get him nowhere, nothing but a damn waste of time. Life was filled with regret. Letting it get to you, pull you down when you should be moving ahead meant you were little more than a weak kneed simpleton.

A brother being called upon to kill a brother though….that was in poor taste; a horrible insult and that alone was his biggest regret to date. Screw ups aside, Elliot had a number of high profile hits under his belt; he deserved to go out with dignity.

Gritting his teeth, he admonished himself for getting caught up in the past again. Truth be told, he would much rather focus on the here and now, most importantly, the noise that had woken him from a fitful sleep. He knew he was merely searching for distraction and any flimsy excuse would do, still, Jackson found himself creeping down the stairs; who he was concerned of awakening and why was beyond him. This structure had nothing in common with the ramshackled home of his youth and there wasn't a person within it that would dare gripe should he happen to make a sound. Nevertheless, he moved silently and before too long, found himself on what could only be the wrong side of that basement door, moving towards her, watching her, knowing he was only there because of needless longing.

Renee was there, of course. There was no way out of the room. He'd made sure of that personally. A person could scream, beg, try to claw their way through the concrete walls if they like; it would be a fruitless undertaking. Part of him wondered if she had figured that out already, if she knew not to waste her time or if she'd given it the old college try. The book he'd given her, which lay on the floor inches below her outstretched hand told him she understood the futility of such efforts and had decided to conserve her energy. His better judgment told him to stay alert; more than likely the strength she saved not trying to break out of her temporary prison would be put to use in other ways. How exactly, he had no way of knowing.

Jackson couldn't help but smile at the sight of her. No matter their circumstances, whether this room served as a holding tank or torture chamber, everyone fell asleep eventually. Like the others, Renee had most likely promised herself that she would sleep with one eye open, take a catnap or any other self-placating measure her tired mind and body required; it always ended the same, with them lying on the couch or the floor, dead to the world until he crept up on them.

He bent down and picked the book up, looking at it for just a moment before he opened it and skimmed through the pages from back to front; a strange and persistent habit of his. Before he could reach the first few pages however, he stopped his progression. Renee turned, rolling onto her side and curling up in a tight ball before wrapping her arms around herself. The way her face scrunched up told him she was uncomfortable and when he noticed the blanket still folded and resting on the opposite end of the couch, he knew why.

It was chilly down here now that the sun had set on a scorching day. Even in pants and a long sleeved, cotton T-shirt he could feel the draft; Renee must have been freezing and that alone got his protective juices flowing. He had a weakness for people of strong character, women in particular; probably because he saw so little of it in this line of work. He listened to her breathing, could hear the congestion and see her long eyelashes still wet from her tears and knew full well that somehow, at some point, he had heard her crying, or felt it, and that was what brought him down here.

"You worry too much," he whispered as he touched the side of her face lightly. She had it in her mind that he would be a tyrant and she, his servant. Indeed, the two of them would never be Ozzie and Harriet, but her life wouldn't be filled with the kind of gloom and doom her angst ridden mind perceived.

As far as he could tell she had followed his direction and took the time to freshen up, though he had the strong feeling that she had done so for her benefit, not because of his suggestion. She had changed her clothes, but had only traded one pair of shorts and T-shirt for another – those items being all she had in her backpack. He knew the contents well; he was no fool and had searched the bag inside and out before he'd given it to her. The last thing he needed was to discover one phone call too late that she'd been carrying a cell phone.

Her small purse, not unlike its' owner, was understated and enigmatic; revealing only as much information as was absolutely necessary. It gave him just enough to whet his appetite, leaving him thirsty for more. Here was a woman who wanted to be dull and yet the ordinary always seemed to elude her. The mystery of it all, wanting to know more about her, kept him enthralled.

He'd come across her checkbook and the $40 in cash she had tucked inside. Truth be told, the balance in that checking account wasn't much higher. Credit card companies and their 30% interest rates were bleeding her dry and lacking a home of her own – from Elizabeth's license he gathered that they lived together, with Elizabeth paying the mortgage every month – she couldn't obtain a loan large enough to pay down that debt. Elizabeth, though she seemed comfortable financially, couldn't offer much help but the fact that she let Renee live with her rent and utility free made Jackson think she wasn't such a screeching harpy after all, not that he felt a burning desire to know her better or remorse for not having done so. He wondered about Renee's parents and their financial situation, why they hadn't helped their daughter out. From the minimal digging he'd conducted into their background, they could have offered assistance but it was equally possible that she had not told them at all. Renee was not exactly a great communicator, not from his experience, Jackson had a feeling she held just about everything in and was even more likely to keep her mouth shut if a confession might bring guilt and shame.

In general, Renee seemed to have little in the way of possessions and that was a let down. She had nothing that gave him a better handle on who she was. His subordinates had dug up any and all available information on her, but manila folders filled with print outs of her credit history, college transcripts and the like were impersonal at best. They couldn't compare to the intimacy of her personal belongings. The only form of self expression to be found were the little bunnies she had doodled on her check book cover; much like its' owner, the handbag was guarded.

But as minimalist as Renee's purse had been, Elizabeth's was a bottomless pit of knowledge; a wallet jammed packed with pictures and every shopping receipt she'd received since 1985. Going through its' contents had been similar to embarking on an archeological dig and he had dumped everything out onto the coffee table in front of him, using a pencil to sift through all the receipts and candy bar wrappers. Archaeological dig indeed, more like sifting through trash at the local dump.

The pictures in particular caught his eye because Renee looked so very different. Her face was fuller, brighter and her skin had a healthy glow. Her hair was longer in those days as well, falling well past her shoulders. She had been more than a match for Elizabeth from a beauty standpoint back then. What had happened to make her change so drastically? Where was that inner light? If he flipped through the pages of that makeshift photo album quickly enough it was like watching a film of her life as it deteriorated. Renee's smile began to fade as her skin paled and her shoulders drooped. Then one day that long hair was gone and in that last photo he had never seen a pair of eyes filled with so much unhappiness.

Jackson had studied that last photo for the longest time. Elizabeth always had some unknown man by her side, but Renee was forever with the same bleary eyed dufus and that _man_ always seemed to have a beer in his right hand, his left holding onto his second most prized possession…his wife. This overgrown child had to be her ex. A perpetual scowl on his face, his red rimmed eyes a clear indication that the beer in his hand was not his first of the day and judging from the sunlight that poured through the windows and the clock on the wall behind the group of four, it was only 11:00 a.m. _Keep pounding down the beers, winner. You must be parched._

Sarcastic musings aside, Jackson thought of him as a leech, sucking away happiness rather than life blood; one of those people who sensed emotional duress in any individual the way a shark detects blood in the water. He appeared to be what Jackson had always thought of as the emotional equivalent of a garbage truck; just looking for some poor, unsuspecting soul to unload upon. The kind of killjoy that would walk into a room, see people laughing, smiling and ask, "What the hell are you so happy about?"

A man like his father….

He looked down at his hands, the knuckles still cracked and scabbed over from the wounds he'd inflicted on Elliot, and her. Yes, he'd hit her too. As a matter of fact it seemed he responded violently whenever anyone said or did something that wasn't to his liking. Jackson turned his hands over, looking again at his palms and lines therein, the stories they told.

If he was something more than the sum of his vices, more than what his parents were, why, why did he give into his aggression so frequently?

Because, he told himself, the pain he inflicted had a purpose. He had come a long way from the pathetic days of his youth. He was a man that got things done and when dealing with the lowest common denominator, a situation he often found himself in, one _had_ to speak the language of violence.

Or so he told himself.

Jackson set the book down and unfolded the blanket, gently laying it over Renee's body in the hopes that he wouldn't wake her. Renee with her gentle countenance and demeanor; even that outstretched hand that peaked out from under the blanket was delicate. He was left to wonder why the sight of it calmed him so, why it lessened the sting of Elliot's death. Were the feelings he experienced in that moment genuine, or nothing more than a case of transference? He couldn't say for certain and didn't care to overthink the notion. If the feelings evolved and deepened or if they dried up all together remained to be seen; time had a way of answering all questions.

But something had brought him down here. Something had woken him with a start and brought him to her side when he ought not to be there. He knelt beside her and watched her as she slept, thinking about the pictures he had found in Elizabeth's purse when Renee had worn her hair longer. What had prompted her to cut it, he wondered. The sight of a woman with closely cropped hair always peaked his interest and Renee's style if not for her soft face and those darling freckles parading across the bridge of her nose, would have looked downright boyish.

Fortunately for her, there was nothing about her face that could be considered masculine and he couldn't resist studying that face, enamored with her small mouth, those thin lips in particular, parted ever so slightly and looking more than just a little inviting.

And he leaned that much closer until he could see the fine lines, every nook and cranny of those lips, slightly chapped which only served to captivate him further. He wanted to touch them, taste them, enjoy them in an ideal time; one free of confrontation and discord. She moaned somewhat contentedly. In the midst of a peaceful dream, she smiled and he felt transfixed, imaging what it would be like to see that fragile smile, to hear those soft moans as she lay beneath him under very different circumstances then the ones they currently found themselves in and he squirmed at the mental images his over-active imagination conjured up. His hand slipped underneath the blanket, coming to rest on her leg, feeling the goose bumps rise on the surface of her cool skin, wanting so very much to warm her. Another soft moan and she pressed against his touch, causing the breath to catch in his throat for the second time that evening though this was anything but a nightmare. He knew what he was doing and what he was; a man that had gone too long without a woman and this one had a knack for sending both his heads into overdrive. What harm could come from touching her face, her arm, and her hair while she slept? He could control himself; he knew he wouldn't wake her.

Jackson sighed and rose to his feet. If he didn't leave now, he'd do something stupid, impetuous and regrettable. Besides, what he had in mind was neither smart nor appropriate given the time and place. Still, he was fully aware that should she happen to wake and issue that particular request, he would certainly oblige.

He needed to be diligent, work needed to be done, preparations made. Tomorrow he would catch his flight to Miami, he would prepare his home, get to know Lisa Reisert better than she knew herself and he and Renee would have a chance to rekindle that spark he knew had always been there.

He was all about the endings, finishing the job and the rewards that always followed. If planning weren't so damned important he'd skip it all together and stay where the action was. And right now he was exactly where he wanted to be, more or less, with her, even though he'd rather she be stretched across his bed, having rid herself of that cumbersome clothing. On a hot, humid…sticky night like this, clothes were nothing but a nuisance, completely unnecessary.

Given the circumstances, bedding her would take a miracle or at the very least words that a mortal man, even one as charming as he, did not possess. So for now, his fantasy would remain just that; a petty dream, quite possibly a foolish desire. There would be plenty of steamy nights ahead, in every sense of the word once they made it to Florida.

Then, in the midst of his erotic fantasies, he glanced down and saw her with her eyes wide open, her mouth as well, though she had never screamed or gasped upon seeing him so close. The lesson he'd given her on poise had paid off and she had calmed herself almost immediately. Now she watched him with a curious expression. One that indicated a confession of sorts was on the horizon.

"What?" he asked. The only words he had for her latest surprising behavior other than "why didn't you scream?". He settled for this simple prompt, hoping to loosen her lips, and then he waited to see if she dared confide in him. As the silence continued, he put the pieces together. The look on her face and the way her mouth hung agape, he'd probably looked the exact same way when he'd woken from his nightmare.

"Rough night?" he ventured, his tone and attitude balanced between usual sarcasm and genuine concern.

That seemed to hit her hard, those two words, though he had no idea why at this point. For a moment she trembled. Jackson thought she might break down but when he moved to touch her, a comforting gesture only, she recoiled, pressing her back to the worn sofa.

"Renee, I…."

"I keep waiting for life to get better, Jackson and it's just….it's just _not."_

"No one ever promised you a rose garden, Renee," he said, knowing that the words sounded cold. In a way, she had won. He'd been forced to take the easy way out. Not because he was afraid of a debate or any sort of confrontation, not at all. But these heated arguments in closed quarters, even worse, the misplaced tender moments, the way she looked at him, everything; he wasn't sure he could be a gentlemen if the candor didn't stop.

"I won't cry, Jackson. I'm past that now. All my life, I've sat around and waited for others to come and save me. After the divorce, all that debt, I used to wish that someone would just come and take me away. Be careful what you wish for, I guess." She laughed at the irony of it all before she continued. "Now I just have to figure out why I never thought I'd be able to change my life on my own," she looked up at him and smiled. To his surprise, what he saw was more of an arrogant smirk, the last thing he'd expected from her. "But at least I'll admit to it. How's your conscience these days, Jackson?"

"Trying to rattle me again? Give it a rest, Renee. I didn't get to where I am now because of an overwhelming love of my fellow man."

"Then how did you get here, Jackson? I'd really like to hear that story."

"Another time," he said as the floorboards creaked above their heads. Dr. Sparell had arrived, early, as usual. "Until then, Renee, remember, stick with me, I'm all you've…."

The words died on his lips as the floor boards continued to sing above them. Jackson was thankful for that distraction. If not for Dr. Sparell's early arrival, Renee would have seen the look on his face, defeated, worse yet, _reminded_.

"_Just remember one thing, boy. I'm all you got."_

If the sequence had been just a few seconds off she would have read his face, seen that his quick ascent up the stairs wasn't due to the arrival of his guest but a profound need to get away.

When he opened the basement door he was face to face with a man he knew well; a man whose skills and soul were purchased years ago; not with cash, but the promise of silence. A competent doctor and a good man, he might have led a quite life if not for his proclivity of writing prescriptions to friends, family and anyone else with the proper funds. He might very well have been greedy, but in this case, greed was harmless. Jackson only needed him to get Renee as far as Miami and though the doctor had his share of faults, he was not a pervert and wouldn't dare samplethis particular merchandise.

"Doctor," Jackson uttered in his most cordial tone of voice, delighting in the way the gray haired man recoiled at the unexpected sight of him. Sparell was out of his element and for all intents and purposes, that was a good thing. "It's nice to see you again."

He said nothing more to the physician, leaving him alone to iron out the details. Jackson had the utmost confidence in the man, knew he would work hard with the threat of exposure hanging over his head. It would seem that wherever he went, people were always the same. In spite of what the self proclaimed righteous folk may say, it's threats and bribery that make the world go round; anyone who believed otherwise was either an outright liar or completely delusional.

But the doctor wasn't the only one with work to do and now that he was awake, getting back to sleep would be difficult. He went back to his room, lifting a manila folder from the nightstand and deciding that there was a time for work and a time for play. For now, he might as well get something accomplished. The relocation, the surveillance, Renee; it seemed like a great deal for one man to take on at any given time but each task would be rewarding in its own way and when you're doing what you love…hell, it hardly feels like work at all.

"What's your story?" he asked the silence as he looked at the picture of a young woman with a head full of thick, auburn curls; Lisa Reisert. She too had a look about her. A mundane job, a seemingly mundane life and yet, there was a fire in her eyes. He could see its burning intensity even in this shoddy black and white photo he'd been given: more to come, thankfully. Jackson had a feeling she was living life in a perpetual holding pattern for whatever reason and she became diminished in his eyes because of it.

Giving in was easy.

Jackson had always had an affinity for those who refused to do so.

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**Author's note:**** Hi there! It's me again, at long last. I bet you thought I'd forgotten about this little story. I'm glad to say I have not and I hope you enjoy the latest entry. More to come soon, I hope.**

**As always, thank you for taking the time to read and/or review. Your feedback is very important to me.**

**And a special thanks to Not Human, Empty Voices, Zzee and First Noelle, for their pointers, input and encouragement.**


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